


Benefit of the Doubt

by geekmama



Series: Aftermath [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 23:38:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12376500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: She’s known him a very long time. Whywouldn’tshe give him the benefit of the doubt?Still another post-"I Love You" fic





	Benefit of the Doubt

**Author's Note:**

> Written because I'm always disturbed when authors seem to believe it feasible that Molly would just drop Sherlock like a hot potato after that phone call, even after all the years and weirdness they've been through together.
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“I love you.” 

And the line went dead. 

Molly set her mobile on the counter and raised trembling hands to her mouth. Then, realizing there was no use in fighting it, she went into her living room, dim in the fading light of late afternoon, sat down on her sofa and wept as though her heart had been ripped to shreds. 

It was long agonizing minutes before she began to think with any coherence, and her first thoughts were _Why? **Why? Why?**_

 _Why_ did beautiful things have to die? 

Joanne and Matt’s darling baby girl… Molly had only assisted at the post mortem, but that had been bad enough. Terrible, in fact. And the results inconclusive, as so many of those cases were. And Joanne had tried to comfort _her_ when she had failed to hold herself together when she’d given them the report. 

After that, Mike had sent her home for the rest of the day... and she’d found Toby. 

There should have been no comparison, but there _was_. He had been hers in a way that no other being in her life ever had. 

People who claimed that animals did not really love were ignorant _fools_.   

And then… on top of all that… 

It was said that disaster always came in threes, and here was incontrovertible proof. 

She threw herself back on the couch and stared blindly at the ceiling, tears slipping from the corners of her eyes into her hair. 

 _I… love you. I love you!_  

Oh, that had thrown him off, her insistence that he say it first. Maybe it had been childish… but no. _If she must suffer, so would he, by God._ The words held true. 

She replayed it over and over in her head, hearing him struggle to say the words. 

Well, the first time he’d certainly struggled. But the second time… 

She frowned. 

What on _earth_ had he been playing at with that phone call? 

And why had he _called_ in the first place? _I prefer to text._ She could hear him saying that, as he had so many times, in that flat, condescending way of his, though sometimes with mischief at the back of his eyes. 

He _never_ called… or rarely. If there was some emergency… 

A sudden premonition rapidly expanded to a full-on shiver of fear.. 

To _call_ , then to ask such an unprecedented, uncharacteristic thing of her. And then to hang up immediately? 

There was something wrong. 

Maybe _very_ wrong, knowing Sherlock (as she _did_ ), and considering the things that had happened between all of them in the last six months. 

She got up, feeling drained and old, but fear and curiosity hounding her. Went to the kitchen and snatched up her phone. Nothing, just the record of the two calls. Eighty-eight seconds of the strangest conversation she’d ever had with him (and they were _always_ strange, in one way or another). 

After a second’s hesitation she decided to text him.

 

**Sherlock, what’s going on? -MH**

 

She waited ten minutes for a reply, tidying her grief-ravaged self, then finishing up making the tea she’d started before being interrupted. Took slow sips of the delicious brew, trying to stay calm. 

But there was no reply. 

So she texted Greg.

 

**Greg, do you know where Sherlock is? - MH**

 

Two minutes later, Greg’s text alert sounded.

 

**Molls! He’s out of town. - GL**

 

**Baker Street got blown up again but everyone’s OK. - GL**

 

_Oh, God!_

 

**He’s on the case. - GL**

 

**Mrs. Hudson? - MH**

 

**Gone to her sister’s. Took her to the station myself. - GL**

 

She began another line of text, but then deleted it and phoned him instead. 

“Molly?” he asked when he picked up. 

“Greg, there… I think there’s something wrong. Sherlock called me a bit ago and … it wasn’t right.” 

“What wasn’t right?” 

“Well, he never calls when he can text, unless it’s something dire. And… he sounded… not himself. Almost frightened!” She was beginning to remember the rest of the conversation, his panicky _Don’t hang up!_ And his nervous, _I know you’re not an experiment. You’re my friend. We’re friends._ “Greg, where did he _go?_ ” 

“Well, that’s just it, I don’t exactly know. But Mycroft’s with him, and John. Lord… But they’ll be alright.” 

He sounded as though he was trying to convince himself, now, as well as her. Molly’s heart thudded in her chest, but she managed to put a smile in her voice (just as Sherlock had… oh, _God!_ ) and said, “Yes. I’m sure you’re right. The three of them… well, they’d be unstoppable.” 

“Yeah,” said Greg, thoughtfully. “Look, when did you take his call? Can you tell me what he said.” 

Molly swallowed hard. “It… it was about forty minutes ago. He wanted me to say… three words. _I love you_.” 

“God,” Greg breathed. “I mean… did he say why?” 

“An experiment? But I don’t think… I really don’t think it was that. He was afraid, Greg, and trying to hide it. He was very insistent that I say it.” 

Greg was silent for a moment, then asked, “ _Did_ you say it?” 

“I made him say it first. But yes. And then he hung up. Or… the line went dead, at least.” Molly sniffed, and rubbed at her runny nose, tears gathering again. But when Greg said nothing, she asked, in a watery chuckle, “Weird, right?” 

“Molls, I’m coming over,” Greg said, finally, his voice grim. “Just… well, hang tight. I’ll be there in fifteen.” 

He arrived in ten, siren howling as he pulled up in front of her building, and she had the door open before he’d even shut it off and exited the car. 

He did not smile as he strode up the walk, but his expression lightened as he reached her, and he put an arm around her and gave her a hug and a quick kiss on her forehead. “Just want a look around. Just in case.” 

She nodded, but did not otherwise reply, her chest tight as she fought down a sob of fear. 

He walked in and scanned the living room, then asked, “Where’d you take the call?” 

“Kitchen,” she managed to croak. Tears slid down her cheeks again, and she said, “Sorry!” in acknowledgment of his sympathetic grimace, and turned away to grab some more tissues. 

After she blew her nose and wiped her cheeks again, she stood up very straight, took a couple of deep, calming breaths, and followed him into the kitchen. 

He was setting something on the counter, something small and black, cylindrical, with a short wire attached. 

“What is that?” she asked, a touch of hysteria in her voice, for she already suspected. 

And he confirmed it. “A camera. There’s likely others.” He stopped his search and said to her, “Molly, I want you to go sit outside in the car. In fact, come on.” He took her by the wrist, though his grip slid down to her hand as he pulled her after him to the front door and out to his car. 

Once they were inside, he got on the radio and barked some orders. 

Her house was going to be swept not only for cameras, but for explosives. She covered her trembling lips with her hand again. 

Then, still sitting there, he fired off some texts. “Just on the off chance, Sending one to Mycroft’s PA, too. She probably knows where they went, at least.” 

“W-where’s Rosie?” Molly croaked, suddenly terrified for her goddaughter. 

“Ted and Stella’s, and hopefully out of harm’s way, but I’ll have someone check on ‘em. I’m going to have John’s place swept, too. Something bad’s going on, Molls.” 

He was starting the car when Molly remembered. “Greg! I’ve left my phone.” 

“Leave it,” he snapped. “And it’s likely you’ll have to get another one to replace it.” He looked over at her, and tried to give her a smile and a wink. “We’ll get through this, eh?” 

She nodded, but fear welled up inside her again, and she turned to stare blindly out the window as the car pulled away from the kerb.

 

*

 

She had been sitting in Sally Donovan’s office at NSY headquarters for nearly four hours when Greg came rushing in, putting on his coat as he told them, “Gotta go, Sherlock’s finally sent a text and we’ve pinpointed his location.” 

Molly had jumped to her feet and now demanded querulously, “He’s alright?” 

“Dunno! All he said was _Come now!_ Maybe didn’t have time for anything else. But there’s good news, Molly,  they’ve finished sweeping yours, found three more cameras but nothing else. You should be safe enough there, though we’ll have a watch on you, at least for a day or two. Sally, can you take her home? Gotta run -- Mycroft’s PA’s sent a helicopter for us.” 

Sally rolled her eyes a bit, but gave a crooked smile, too, as she turned to Molly. 

But Molly blurted, “Greg, can I come with you?” 

“No!” he exclaimed, shocked. But then said more gently, “No, Molls, you need to let us handle it. We don’t know what sort of situation we’re looking at. We’ll have him call you as soon-- oh, bloody hell. Your mobile. They’ve confiscated it -- suspect it’s been tampered with.” He turned to Sally. “Get her a mobile, I don’t care how. One of ours, or take her to a shop or something.” 

“Shouldn’t be too difficult, it’s only nine,” said Sally. “Be safe, Greg.” 

He gave her a grin, his eyes sparking with amusement.. “Right. With Sherlock involved, what could _possibly_ go wrong?” 

And with that, he was out the door. 

Sally turned to Molly. “Shouldn’t be long now. Let’s see about that phone and get you home.” 

More waiting, Molly thought dismally, following her out. But at least he had been able to text. That was something.

 

*

 

The phone was acquired easily enough, and within the hour Molly was home and staring in dismay at the disarray caused by the sweep. She had texted both Greg and Sherlock, so now there was nothing to do but wait for events to unfold and resolve. Probably plenty of time to put her house back together. 

She spent more than two hours doing so, since it was one of those projects that tended to snowball into multiple unanticipated tasks, but finally, near midnight, she was sitting down on her sofa with a hot cup of tea and the remote control of her telly, clicking through the various channels for any sign of information. There was nothing -- which didn’t seem surprising, considering Mycroft was involved -- he’d keep things under wraps as long as he could. 

A few minutes after midnight, her new mobile’s text alert sounded, startling her. She snatched it up.

 

**They’re safe. - GL**

 

**Too weird, though. - GL**

 

**Sherlock will tell you. - GL**

 

**John sends a hug. - GL**

 

She almost began to weep again, the relief was so palpable. She lay back against the cushions of the couch, just breathing and thinking, over and over, _Thank God!_  

And then she thought, ‘ _Sherlock will tell you’? He’s coming here?_ 

But no, Greg couldn’t have meant…. 

Could he? 

She hesitated for another few seconds, then leapt off the sofa and ran up the stairs. Grabbed a pretty but comfortable outfit (flowered leggings, a tunic-style jumper to match), hesitated, then grabbed the pretty new bra and pants set (astoundingly wishful thinking, but what could it hurt?), ran into the loo and gasped at her disheveled, tear-stained appearance, shut the door, and turned on the shower.

 

*

 

It was well after three in the morning when he arrived. 

She’d been asleep on the sofa for over an hour, having finally succumbed to exhaustion, when she was roused by a rap on her front door. She sat up, frowning, for it couldn’t be Sherlock. He never knocked, either broke in or used his key. 

But when she looked through the peephole (because three in the morning? Come on!) there he was, staring straight at her, complete with Belstaff and scarf. 

She threw the door open and stared up at him. 

He looked older, very tired. Not smiling. A hint of uncertainty in his eyes. “Hello, Molly.” 

She could hardly believe he was standing on her front porch, after everything that had happened. She took a step toward him, raising her hand. Just wanting to touch him and make sure he was real. 

And something changed in his expression, and he took his hands out of his coat pockets and hesitantly lifted his arms. 

She walked into his embrace. Laid her head against his shoulder, and closed her eyes with a sigh of pure relief when his arms closed tight about her, his own head bent against hers. 

There was the sound of a car pulling away from the curb. 

He cleared his throat. “I think John’s left me here. Is that.. alright?” 

She smiled, and pushed back a little in order to look at him. “Still your favorite bolthole?” She saw that her humor had been ill-timed (as was so often the case -- _Not your area, Molly_ ). She gave an uncertain smile and said, “Of course it’s alright. You have to explain, don’t you?” 

He sighed wearily, releasing her with some reluctance. “I’ve a mad sister, it seems, been locked up for years, but Mycroft let her meet with Moriarty at some point and she ended up manipulating not only him but her keepers and managed to compromise my safety and that of everyone I love, as well as numerous others, often fatally so. It’s over now, she’s safe, and… here we are.” 

She stared, open-mouthed. “But--” 

“I know. I know that raises more questions than it answers. I’ll tell you all of it… but not now. Please? I’m sorry--” 

“No, _I’m_ sorry,” she said, with true contrition. “Do you need your own space? I can--” 

“Can’t I sleep with you? The way we used to?” And then an odd diffidence came into his face, and she could almost swear he was blushing, though it was very difficult to tell in the dim light. “Well, for now, at least.” 

She could not have misunderstood. Obviously had not, from his expression. She had a strong urge, to laugh and cry all at once, and to hide her emotion she took up his hand and pressed it to her lips, and then to her cheek, before clasping it warmly. “Yes, of course,” she said, simply. 

Then she led him inside, and closed the door.

 

~.~

 


End file.
